


Celtic challenge of murder ballads, song 1, part 3

by AzureAngel2



Series: “Down in the willow garden”, a series of Orson Krennic vignettes [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Chandrilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:20:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzureAngel2/pseuds/AzureAngel2
Summary: Summary: A Lieutenant Commander in the Republic, working in the Special Weapons Group, is on a personal mission. In order to please his chief-in-commander he has to fly to a place full of childhood memories. He is even prepared to gun down the man who sired him. For a bundle of compromising letters.Time frame: about 1,5 weeks before RotS (19 BBY)Planet of choice: ChandrilaDisclaimer: SW is owned by George Lucas, Lucas Ltd. and now The Walt Disney Company





	

**Story 3:** _“Cabin door”_ ****

Nobody is with you for this private call. Not _to bail up_ an old man. But it's tempting to have a full complement of special troopers lot at your disposal.

Out of habit you land the Delta-class T-3c shuttle was _within cooee_. At the edge of the farmland to be exactly. You like to have one foot out of the door. It's an old childhood habit really.

Another advantage of this spot is that you can see the Anil farm just fine. You are half-way between both properties now.

You smile without joy.

It is but a small walk towards the farmhouse, through an apple orchard. The trees are full in bloom. It's spring here in this region of Chandrila.

Of course you know all the apple varieties that surround you: Akane apples, Beacon apples, Cameo apples, Dawn apple and so many more.

A sneer appears on your face.

You learned to hate apples long before you were able to walk. Their sight, their smell, their taste – everything about them disgusts you.

You glare at the trees around you. It is their fault that sweet, silly Lucky is no more.

The truth is, you did not aim for the family dog on the day he died. You wanted to burn a hole through one of the apple trees. The poor thing, hunting a grasshopper with dedication, got in the way. Ever since, you trained yourself and practised and drilled yourself on marksmanship.

In dismay you shake your head.

The fact that Lucky is gone these thirty years now doesn't ease the loss. He was such a lively character, licking you off at every occasion. You got more affection from him than from your own parents.

The Krennic family farm holds too many unpleasant memories for you. This place is rotten from the inside out. Like a worm-eaten apple.

Eliminating a living being is far easier than to eradicate a patch of land, but you are working on it. Sooner or later you will burn this place to the ground.

But today you are only here to meet the _fruit loop_ who sired you. An encounter that you are not enthusiastic about.

Passion is an emotion that you get about your projects, but when it comes to family affairs, your don't care. You were neglected at a time when parental love would have most mattered, and now it is too late. Far too late.

Ina, the true anchor point of your life, claims that your mother could not help the post-partum depression, or the _“baby blues”_ as she sugar-coats it over and over again. She probably also has some cock-and-bull excuse for your father.

While you approach the farmhouse your old man sits on the veranda. He is in his favourite rocking chair, puffing away at a _meerschaum_ pipe. Smoking is perhaps the only thing that you have in common with the old man.

He gazes in your direction, a hand over his brow to protect his eyes from the midday sun.

The random lyrics of an old murder ballad come into your mind.

_“_ _My father sits_ _at his cabin door  
Wiping his tear-dimmed eyes”_

You expect no tears from him. Neither tears of joy nor of sorrow.

Agrippa Doran Krennic is a taciturn farmer, defining himself through the hard work he does on a daily basis. For him praying to the Living Force, hah, is an act of never-ending labour.

You never really got that concept of a mystical energy field that binds the universe together. There is no place for hocus-pocus in your life, only for logical approach and facts; maybe post-facts if the empire asks it. As long as it means structure and stability in your existence, the instalment of the Empire is something you can fully agree with.

“Orson,” your old man greets you courtly, when you come to stand still right in front of him.

“Agrippa,” you reply in a low tone of voice.

He has aged profoundly since you last saw him. There is an unfamiliar fragility about him. Because his health insurance company made a mistake and sent the bills for his radiation therapy to you, you can name his disease. But you wanted to see for yourself. It does not bring you the pleasure that you hoped it would.

“I am here about the letters,” you start.

The corners of his mouth twitch. “Of course... I can... pay you back,” he speaks under great effort. “Any time.”

Knowing his finances all too well, you are one-hundred percent certain that he cannot. But you have a deal to offer, one he can't afford to refuse. “As I was about to say: I am here to fetch all the correspondence Ina and you had over the past decades.”

He crumbles right in front of you, an old, dying man with no strength left. “You have… no business...”

Ugly laughter breaks out of you, having been trapped in your chest for too long. “There is no privacy of letters. Not any more. Not within the new order. And certainly not when Ina is involved.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You never... cared answering… her letters… before. This is why… she started… to write… me.”

It is true, you shut Isa out of your life on the day she turned sixteen. One of her party guests had inquired when the winter term would start at the University of Alderaan. Looking into her flustered face, you knew.

With a loud wail you had smashed her birthday cake on the floor, called her dreadful names and ran off.

Ina had left her own party behind to console you, had gone all the way to your farm house. But you couldn't face her, couldn't not even tell her you were sorry. You had barricaded yourself in your room. Inside your wardrobe you just had felt betrayed that she was bound off-world. For studies that would enable her to work with other children. For more money than your own parents could ever offer her.

It took more than a decade to understand that she did not betray you. That she was not a money-grubbing Toydarian. Everyone needs to get off this world and move on to better things. But you cannot undo the past. You can learn to understand her better though, when you start analysing those letters.

His answer is as sharp as a single laser blaster. “No.”

You reach deep into the pocket of your Imperial uniform. There is an official document you would like him to see. “The Supreme Chancellor personally assigned me to be her legal guardian from now on. I can basically walk inside and start _fossicking_ through the kitchen drawers.”

He narrows his eyes, obviously trying to read the contents of the flimsi foil. To check if you can really make your threat true.

You square your shoulders. “I hate to have Ina incapacitated, but it is for her own good, believe me. We all face hard times and she won't be able to make it on her own.”

Sheev Palpatine made that very clear to you and you believed him. As fantastic as Ina is as a person, she has to be protected from herself.

In an act that costs him a lot of strength, your old man lifts himself from his seat. “Orson!” he snaps and directs a stern pointer finger to you. “If you… do not… leave… I'll call Chetan over!”

This threat, involving Ina's foster father, comes unexpectedly.

“Nagina deserves… better. Much better!” he hisses.

Age has shrunken the once impressive labourer down to non-threatening size and so you can tower above him. “You will hand me the correspondence… now!”

He stares you right into the eyes. There is a clarity in his gaze that was not there before. Combative spirit with a mix of pride. “What is… wrong with you?” he inquires. “Why do… you hate… her as well… now?”

Anger flushes your face deep red. “I _frecking_ love Ina! That is why I need her letters. She compromises herself all the time, might even have spilled secrets of state.”

Of course she would not have done so out of evil ambitions. She is is always too helpful, too truthful.

“Be… gone!” your old man commands you.

You put your hands on your hips. “I would love coming back with six heavily armoured soldiers. They will blast Mister Anil and you into pieces.”

He huffs. “Beware of... Mistress Anil! She will… have your… head!”

You decide to come back another day. Preferably when your old man is confined to a hospital bed in the capital. You will check his medical appointments. Maybe bribe the doctor and nurses to keep him longer. Those letters will be yours.

“May… the Force… be… with you!” he calls after you, his voice weak.

That blasted Force! His trees might need it to be with them on their dying day.

During your most recent visit on Scarif you saw clone troopers train with flame-throwers.

Smiling and with your head held up high, you leave the place of your childhood.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation from the Chandrilan rural dialect into Basic:  
> bail (somebody) up = to corner somebody physically  
> within cooee = nearbye  
> fruit loop = fool  
> fossick = search, rummage
> 
>  
> 
> Sources:  
> Still the song “Down in the willow garden”, the version of Loreena McKennitt  
> Now a bow to Ben Mendelsohn for staring in the series “Bloodline”  
> Wookieepedia – The Star Wars Wiki  
> Jedipedia, a free German Star Wars-Encyclopaedia


End file.
